never learned the art of reaching out
but read a book or two and tried
to love a little world with what it could
and then could not not to be unclear
of course it’s just this hearse running
it’s ragged curse over the bones
and their children back in the mines
thanks to you know who who would
not move an inch for you though you
suck his filthy brim and beg for snacks
until the air runs out and new games start
so we must learn the fresh languages
fast or we won’t last a minute like that
time I could look nowhere else but down
Tag: air
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After the storm left cool air and a snack
of peanut butter and a fig now I’m
hungry again just thinking of it now
where was I going with no plan nothing
to wrap in some rhythmic finery orwhat passes for such yes I’m now running
out the clock as you guessed though we could turn
this thing around if we had the will to
reach into the bush braving blood forsmall berries that might by now be ripe
though hard experience has taught us that
turns around the old neighborhood turn nothings around and the last bump that kept you
up still lurks in the cold sweat of your back
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a murder of crows find it impossible
not to invent ambient music poking through
the stubborn walls of undiscarded sandwiches when
you inquired about the generative urges you
were requested to leave at the borderthose few additional syllables strained the yes
I’m fine with simulated food though the
evening air moans if it weren’t for
those peculiar appetites I could have retiredto the floating bungalows of Titan after
the outbreak the mechanism showed little contrition
claiming a river is thankful for morewater as a different shard of mirror at
the end of this breath may distribute flowers(A geometric pseudo-neosurrealist sonnet of 100 words.
Lines one through twelve have seven words
and the final two lines have eight.)
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when have I ever but when have I
not but yes I’m also already bored withthis balloon that can’t hold air trees chopped
away for clammy conveniencehave I walked this far for a dead end
sometimes nothing stirs inside but a
wish for blindness or the old well and
endless falling but then what will comenext to hands that can hold nothing and
the nothing that can’t be held but stopwith that cloud of smoke somewhere around
here where there should be no green I meanit’s hard to talk about flowers just
now is that enough do you need more
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the day Caesar dies a pink seagull in baby-colored air
(First published in The Pan Haiku Review.)
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my hand sways a rhyme in cursive air above the first bluet
(First published in Under the Basho.)
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as I write with one foot
stuck in dark mud the otherunresponsive for reasons
I can’t discover lightsflicker throughout the day I’m
more full of fewer thoughts withair enough for me to ascend
the brilliant sharp mountainI have kept my pockets empty for
I have kept my back straight against throughyears of small work and I
see the check on its waybefore I’ve ordered it’s my fault
I should have gotten here as soon asthe neighbors finished dancing
on our ceiling and the skychanged to business casual blue so with
my knuckles sore I crack another nutbut what if one thought survives
somehow the pressure of spaceas the small stones crawl from the sea
wall after the grey is goneand we work into the overhyped
night sponsored by what you would ratherremember a castle visited
through a dream that always asks too much
other animals 